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Oh, just because I can and this just happened and I actually gasped and stopped breathing for a moment, unable to look away:
Let's talk about how this happened, shall we?
Because here's the thing - Clint likes to drive. He doesn't really get to do it often, but that's one of the things he could escape his life with, back in the circus. Just get in a car and drive away for a while, let his arm hang from the window and allow his mind to roam free, to let go of the constant thrum of anger and desperation buzzing under his skin.
Another thing he likes to do when he can't drive, it's stick his head under the hood of a car and forget about time passing while making sure everything is in order in there. It requires precision, a certain kind of focus that is different from archery but allows the same kind of empty, quiet space inside himself, where everything disappears in the background and only what his fingers are doing matters.
He buys this classic Aston Martin he finds in some junkyard, it's in pieces but very cheap, and Tony doesn't care when Clint asks if he can keep it in a corner of the garage to make it up whenever he's got time. And that's what he does, because Clint wants to drive that car so fucking bad, but he barely can - the Avengers don't really know the concept of vacation or free time, so it's a slow process.
And this one afternoon, when finally he's got a moment to himself, Clint just goes for it, throwing on his oldest wifebeater and comfiest jeans before setting to work on the DB5. He runs his hand over the hood, taking in the shine of the silver paint job, still planning on getting it properly waxed when it's ready, and then he sets to work.
Hours melt away, his tools fanned out around him as he lies under the car, working the steering axis, and he's so into it he doesn't hear the door, or footsteps, until a shoe pokes his wrench. Clint stares at it for a moment, one shining black shoe and then another coming into view, and only then does Clint manages to shake himself out of it, sliding from under the car to look up at Special Agent Coulson, watching his eyes move over Clint's upper body and face.
"We had a briefing, Barton."
Clint grins.
- - -
(be indulgent, I literally wrote this on the spot) Anyone wants to go on with this? I AM SO SHALLOW, BUT THIS IS A LOT OF MY KINKS, RIGHT HERE. THE MECHANIC/GREASE ON A WIFEBEATER AND ARMS THING.
Let's talk about how this happened, shall we?
Because here's the thing - Clint likes to drive. He doesn't really get to do it often, but that's one of the things he could escape his life with, back in the circus. Just get in a car and drive away for a while, let his arm hang from the window and allow his mind to roam free, to let go of the constant thrum of anger and desperation buzzing under his skin.
Another thing he likes to do when he can't drive, it's stick his head under the hood of a car and forget about time passing while making sure everything is in order in there. It requires precision, a certain kind of focus that is different from archery but allows the same kind of empty, quiet space inside himself, where everything disappears in the background and only what his fingers are doing matters.
He buys this classic Aston Martin he finds in some junkyard, it's in pieces but very cheap, and Tony doesn't care when Clint asks if he can keep it in a corner of the garage to make it up whenever he's got time. And that's what he does, because Clint wants to drive that car so fucking bad, but he barely can - the Avengers don't really know the concept of vacation or free time, so it's a slow process.
And this one afternoon, when finally he's got a moment to himself, Clint just goes for it, throwing on his oldest wifebeater and comfiest jeans before setting to work on the DB5. He runs his hand over the hood, taking in the shine of the silver paint job, still planning on getting it properly waxed when it's ready, and then he sets to work.
Hours melt away, his tools fanned out around him as he lies under the car, working the steering axis, and he's so into it he doesn't hear the door, or footsteps, until a shoe pokes his wrench. Clint stares at it for a moment, one shining black shoe and then another coming into view, and only then does Clint manages to shake himself out of it, sliding from under the car to look up at Special Agent Coulson, watching his eyes move over Clint's upper body and face.
"We had a briefing, Barton."
Clint grins.
- - -
(be indulgent, I literally wrote this on the spot) Anyone wants to go on with this? I AM SO SHALLOW, BUT THIS IS A LOT OF MY KINKS, RIGHT HERE. THE MECHANIC/GREASE ON A WIFEBEATER AND ARMS THING.
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